The Husband. Dean Koontz

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      The dog stood as if on point: one forepaw raised, tail extended but motionless, nose lifted to seek a scent.

      In truth, the golden retriever had not spotted the shooter. It halted in midstep, startled by its master’s collapse, frozen by confusion.

      Directly across the street from the dog, Mitch likewise stood paralyzed. The kidnapper terminated the call, but Mitch still held the cell phone to his ear.

      Superstition promised that as long as the street remained still, as long as neither he nor the dog moved, the violence might be undone and time rewound, the bullet recalled to the barrel.

      Reason trumped magical thinking. He crossed the street, first haltingly, then at a run. If the fallen man was wounded, something might be done to save him. As Mitch approached, the dog favored him with a single wag of its tail.

      A glance at the victim dispelled any hope that first aid might sustain him until paramedics arrived. A significant portion of his skull was gone.

      Having no familiarity with real violence, only with the edited-analyzed-excused-and-defanged variety provided by TV news, and with the cartoon violence in movies, Mitch was rendered impotent by this horror. More than fear, shock immobilized him.

      More than shock, a sudden awareness of previously unsensed dimensions transfixed him. He was akin to a rat in a sealed maze, for the first time looking up from the familiar passageways and seeing a world beyond the glass lid, forms and figures, mysterious movement.

      Lying on the sidewalk near its master, the golden retriever trembled, whimpered.

      Mitch sensed that he was in the company of someone other than the dog, and felt watched, but more than watched. Studied. Attended. Pursued.

      His heart was a thundering herd, hooves on stone.

      He surveyed the day but saw no gunman. The rifle could have been fired from any house, from any rooftop or window, or from behind a parked car.

      Anyway, the presence he sensed was not that of the shooter. He did not feel watched from a distance, but from an intimate vantage point. He felt as if someone loomed over him.

      Hardly more than half a minute had passed since the dogwalker had been killed.

      The crack of the rifle had not brought anyone out of any of the beautiful houses. In this neighborhood, a gunshot would be perceived as a slammed door, dismissed even as it echoed.

      Across the street, at the client’s house, Iggy Barnes had risen from his knees to his feet. He didn’t appear to be alarmed, merely puzzled, as if he, too, had heard a door and didn’t understand the meaning of the fallen man, the grieving dog.

      Midnight Wednesday. Sixty hours. Time on fire, minutes burning. Mitch couldn’t afford to let hours turn to ashes while he was tied up with a police investigation.

      On the sidewalk, a column of marching ants changed course, crawling toward the feast within the cratered skull.

      In a mostly clear sky, a rare cloud drifted across the sun. The day paled. Shadows faded.

      Chilled, Mitch turned from the corpse, stepped off the curb, halted.

      He and Iggy couldn’t just load the unplanted impatiens into the truck and drive away. They might not be able to do so before someone came along and saw the dead man. Their indifference to the victim and their flight would suggest guilt even to the most unworldly passerby, and certainly to the police.

      The cell phone, folded shut, remained in Mitch’s hand. He looked upon it with dread.

      If you go to the cops, we’ll cut her fingers off one by one…

      The kidnappers would expect him to summon the authorities or to wait for someone else to do so. Forbidden, however, was any mention of Holly or of kidnapping, or of the fact that the dogwalker had been murdered as an example to Mitch.

      Indeed, his unknown adversaries might have put him in this predicament specifically to test his ability to keep his mouth shut at the moment when he was in the most severe state of shock and most likely to lose his self-control.

      He opened the phone. The screen brightened with an image of colorful fish in dark water.

      After keying in 9 and 1, Mitch hesitated, but then entered the final digit.

      Iggy dropped his trowel, moved toward the street.

      Only when the police operator answered on the second ring did Mitch realize that from the moment he’d seen the dead man’s shattered head, his breathing had been desperate, ragged, raw. For a moment, words wouldn’t come, and then they blew out of him in a rough voice he barely recognized.

      “A man’s been shot. I’m dead. I mean, he’s dead. He’s been shot, and he’s dead.”